Poetic Justice
by sloanwritesstuff
Summary: it's been years since clarice and hannibal took off for argentina, and now that he's joined her in less than legal acts of murder and cannibalism, she's found themselves a new target-one who's responsible for the rapes of multiple young girls in a city not far from buenos aires. the question remains, will he get his just deserts? or will he be able to escape unscathed?


They stood there as if they were wild creatures—hunters stalking their prey. The night's breeze which blew past them ruffled their hair just enough to attract the other with their own scents; however it did not distract them from the task at hand. Clarice Starling had grown to love this—it felt, to her, like a much-deserved poetic justice, a public service for her fellow woman. A look of bitterness comes to her face as she sees the intended target—a man who had raped ten young girls in Argentina, that she knew of. Hannibal Lecter had taught her, though, to not let impulse and emotions drive her during this time. She could easily do this in a bit—he had assured her multiple times. For a moment, she glances to him before returning those blue eyes to the poor excuse of a man.

"Ahora…?" She asks him in a low-spoken Spanish, the word only audible to her lover, her partner in crime.

"Esperar, mi carina," Hannibal replies; holding a single index finger in the air, it barely visible in the darkness.

The seconds feel like agony to her, she's ready—more than ready. Revenge is sweet, the carnage they would cause was sweeter, and the reveling they would do within the next few days by consuming what parts they would choose to devour was the sweetest of all. She watches the _victim_ closely while Lecter's maroons keep close eye on the clock across the street. When it rings out at the stroke of midnight, he looks to the food before glancing to his accomplice. Out of all those in the past he had convinced—persuaded to kill for and/or with him, this was one time he truly enjoyed it, for she was never a puppet on strings which he got to yank. No, she was something far more, far better than that.

"Ahora…" He whispers against her ear before leading the way towards the man's apartment.

There's an unmistakable excitement in Starling's orbs, though her pace is as calm as her lover's as she walks beside him. Once in front of the home, Lecter allows her to do the honors of disabling the alarm and picking the lock. Their steps are a chilling form of quiet as they enter, making quite sure they wore the proper shoes for this event, as well as clothing they would not mind losing due to tearing and blood. They had studied the layout for a week, and the man's habitual routine outside of the molestations, as well as those horrific acts.

They went into a room just to the side of the foyer, listening as he rummaged around upstairs. He was about to take another victim. He always did this. It was his design, as Will Graham would have said years ago. At midnight, he would come home from work and go through the many photographs he took of young girls at schools and on the street, pick one he most desired at the time before going after her, stealing her from her home only to bring her back here, rape her and keep her hostage for days before letting her go in a secluded place to die—or be discovered. With his haste, he had grown sloppy. This was how Starling and Lecter had discovered him. They were doing the work of which police forces had failed at, and the rewards were far more suitable in their minds than what any justice system could have dished out—so to speak.

When the intended descends the stairs, he can hear breathing that is not his own. It sends a panic throughout him, though it does not show on the thirty-eight year old soon-to-be meal's face. From his pants, he draws out a gun and holds it at his side. He has it for instances in which the girls become far too much for him to handle, though he had never had to use it—and he would never get to, either. He had no practice with the pistol, which was one of many disadvantages. After all, what better way to catch someone then on their own turf, off guard, unexpectedly? To the killers of killers and rapists and other various criminals and generally atrociously rude people—they saw nothing better.

He walks quickly through the home, a mistake. He's ill-calculated, not cunning at all, or at least not as cunning as he thinks himself to be. He makes it through almost the entire first floor without checking the most obvious of places—right behind him. There's a breath on his neck, it freezes him. It's almost demonic to him, and while he had not gone to mass in over two decades, he feels the need to cross himself—but he does not. Slowly, he turns around to see none other than Hannibal 'the Cannibal' Lecter, though he does not know it is him, for the FBI's top ten most wanted is quite behind on his likeness.

"Ay Dios mio!' He says, taking a step back as he aims the gun at the presumed madman. His hand is shaky and uncertain, enough so to make his to-be killer smirk.

"God cannot help you, now, Jorge." He speaks, the Euro accent he poses thickening as he speaks.

"Como—How do you know my name?" It's obvious in his question that English is not a language he uses often. He wonders then if this man really is Satan.

"We've been watching you for some time now, Jorge. You've been a very naughty boy." He pauses; the disapproving click sound Clarice was all too familiar with following. "What is to be done about that? Hmm?"

"Yo no se—I don't know what you are speak about." He lies.

"I know quite well what you've done—and you know quite well what I am talking about, _Jorge._" Hannibal replies, eyes shifting to the red headed woman behind him. "Isn't that right, love?"

"Yes." She speaks frankly, wickedness and hatred in her eyes and voice.

He turns around, screaming slightly as he does so. The way she spoke and the sight of her had unnerved him—left his manhood questionable. However, he tries quite scantily to redeem it. His scream turns into a hideous laugh that had struck fear into the girls he had abused, but it only disgusted the former FBI agent.

"You and your perrita think you can take me out?" He asks, glancing between them both with grotesquely brown eyes. "You've got lot of… nerve, amigo. If your puta was just a bit younger I might have had my fun with her."

Him calling her a little bitch and a whore in one slew of accented and grammatically insufficient English merged with his native tongue is enough to make Hannibal's jaw drop, though only for a moment. He never tolerated such language towards his most prized lioness. Paul Krendler was evidence of that, and so were others. Though, Starling does not look nearly as offended as he is. Perhaps because she had been called worse, or more probable a reason is that she knows all too well what is coming to him? After all, she is not really doing this for herself. She is doing it for those poor, unfortunate girls who have fallen victim to his hand and filthy prick.

"Dear, would you like to do the honors?" Lecter asks her, not letting his eyes leave her.

"Oh, yes." The malice in her voice is unmistakable by both of them. "I would just love to."

In a flash of a motion, she kicks the gun from his hand. It falls to the ground and clanks against the wood rather loudly. The sound echoes throughout the entire place, though no one is there to come to his rescue—especially not God. Fear takes its rightful place in the man's eyes and in that fear, he takes off running. Hannibal cannot help but to chuckle to himself. When will they learn running does them no good? If anything, it tended to make the meat taste less desirable. Clarice and Hannibal then split up, ready to trap him, corner him in the place they knew quite well without even having to step foot within it. In fact, one could argue they knew it better than the occupant did.

Jorge pants as he jogs; only to find himself in the kitchen after several moments. There are two ways to get in and out from there; however it would soon become clear that neither way would be an option. Sure, there are ample weapons in that room, though they're all in cabinets on the opposing side. He's trapped and weaponless—helpless and fearful. What was he to do? Where was he to go? He was to die. He was to go nowhere. On his left appears the satanic man. On his right appears the flamed woman. They're nefarious —both of them, in their own ways. He does not know which to fear more. He should fear them both equally.

Hannibal looks to Clarice, and she looks to him. For a moment, they just look at one another before simultaneously peering back to their next meal. They watch him with curiosity and a sickening splendor as his wheels turn. His aimlessly thinking of a way to get out alive, but it is clear to them both that he will not. He feels as though his life or death situation is almost comparable to that of American game shows he had heard of. Does he choose door number one? Does he choose door number two? Either decision would prove most fatal, though one would be far less merciful than the other. Guess which one.

His thoughts towards women as a whole color his judgment; seal his fate as he indeed chooses the far more ruthless one. Charging towards Starling, Jorge is ready to take her down though she's far more prepared than he is. In one strike, she punches him square in the jaw before slamming him into a wall—beating him across the face. She's sure to not do any body blows—not wanting to damage any organs they may decide to consume later on. Her strong arm has him captive by the throat and her even stronger one goes to pulverizing his face until he's unrecognizable by any means. Most of his already decaying teeth, a byproduct of poor dental hygiene and no medical insurance, are either knocked to the floor or so out of place by this point that any identification via records would be impossible, should his body be stumbled upon—which it would not.

After a while, she pulls away from him—lets him fall to the floor. He's determined, she notes as he struggles to pull himself to his knees and elbows, to crawl away and somehow make it out of the room. What would he do though? Try to get the gun? What a feat that would be! It's clear on the other side of the apartment now. How would he get to it? The answer is simple—he would not. Starling sets aside a couple moments to catch her breath, which she had not at first realized she had been holding the entire time she was beating him across the face. She also lets herself enjoy watching him struggle as all those girls had in the exact same place. Though, she's careful to not let him get out of the room. In a swift motion, she reaches forward and grabs him by the greasy black mop of hair he has, yanking at him roughly before wrapping her arm around his chest.

Looking to Lecter, she silently nods to him, and he tosses her a long and sharpened knife. She's able to catch it, thankfully. After she takes a firm grip of the handle, the blade is pressed roughly into his neck. The pair smirks to one another, eye contact not breaking as she slices into the prey's throat. The spray of blood from his carotid and jugular not only goes quite a distance around them but also splashes across her face. Starling is not in the slightest deterred by it. In fact, she looks triumphant, wears it like war paint. Afterwards, she watches her lover pull out a handkerchief as he advances towards her. She tactlessly lets the body drop to the floor. Now, it's only necessary function is to keep them well fed into the week. Handing him back the knife, she watches him wipe it clean with one side of the white cloth, folding it rather meticulously. She enjoys watching his hands in that instant, just as she does any other time.

A vile smirk comes to Clarice's blood-matted face as she reaches out to touch him. In a sudden moment, she finds herself being kissed by him. He can taste the blood mixing with the natural taste of her mouth and it excites him, though neither let themselves become so lost in each other that they forget the task at hand. They can celebrate later—after dinner. When he pulls away, they wipe the blood from one other's faces. She removes her jacket and over shirt, both covered in sanguine fluid. They are added along with the body in the bag Hannibal has brought along with them—having set it in the room they were in when they first arrive. They leave as if nothing is wrong, re-enabling the alarm system before returning to their mansion a couple cities from where their atrocities were committed, and their next meal's. For both of them, it felt good to be back in Buenos Aires, back with a good amount of flesh to keep their carnal appetites satisfied.

A few days later, the pair had just finished dinner when they sat down together to watch the news. After they raved about the upcoming opera to play at the Teatro Colon, they spoke of things they really had wanted to hear about. The reporter talked of Jorge Mendoza, a man who had been reported missing after not showing up to work for two days, and that day the police went to his residence to find the photographs and other evidence which cracked the rape cases wide open. The case went from a missing person's one to a man hunt. Too bad for the authorities that the very man they sought after was now being digested…


End file.
